I Hate the Holidays
by deceptive-serenade
Summary: Stupid Potter. Stupid Mistletoe prank. James/OC


**I Hate the Holidays**

It was bad enough that I was stuck at Hogwarts for the holidays. Do you know how there is to do when all your friends are gone and you've got a stupid boy bugging you to no end? All I wanted to do was curl up in a chair and read, but _no. _He wouldn't have it.

Stupid Potter. Stupid mistletoe prank.

_For Sheri._

I hate the holidays.

Okay, so maybe I don't hate them _all _that much. They're a good break from classes even if I keep having to studying for my N.E.W.T.'s. The food's especially good this time of year, and everyone's singing and throwing snow around like we'll never have enough of it. Everyone's bloody _happy._

Except me.

But this isn't one of those stories; I'm not going to blab on about how I hate my life, because I don't. There's something called loneliness, and in all honesty, it's one of those things that eats you from within until you're begging for someone, _anyone_ to keep you company.

Yet, why would a girl like me, one with a great family and a few amazing friends, be alone for the holidays? Shouldn't I be in Hogsmeade? Shouldn't I be partying with my friends? Shouldn't I be wrapping presents and writing cards? Why on Earth am I feeling such a drab sense of loneliness?

I can trace the reason back to my ancestors. The Patil family is Indian. I'm Indian. My mother, Parvati Patil, decided to attend a school of magic in Europe instead of in India. She decided to marry a man she fell in love with instead of an arranged marriage. They're divorced now. It's not as though my father cheated or abused her or anything; they quickly grew apart because their backgrounds were just so different.

This, my friends, is why I don't believe in falling in love. Love doesn't run out, and my parents claimed to be consumed within it. How could they grow apart if they fell in love?

They fell out of it. They couldn't have possibly fallen in love in the first place.

Yet I, Pooja Patil, was born before all that happened. Lucky me.

Maybe, one day, I'll grow into loving some Indian man that I'll meet. Right now, I'm stuck at school as my mother visits her twin sister as a relief from the effects of divorce and my friends are with their own, connected and whole families. I'm stuck in the Gryffindor Tower all alone.

Oh, except for James Sirius Potter.

That bloke is _mental._

Last year, I made the mistake of coming to a party with my friends who are _girls._ I honestly didn't see anything wrong with that, until a slightly slower song was playing and the tragedy of the earth struck as my friends magically (no pun intended) disappeared in the arms of some random guys.

Also known as _slow dancing_.

Gasp.

Instead of grabbing a guy and swaying awkwardly for a couple of minutes, I grabbed a Butterbeer and sat down, softly humming along with the music as I curled into an armchair. I didn't really see the point, you know? It was easier to not to try. I was fine until Potter entered the Portrait Hole, obviously having just made it to the party, and spotted me alone.

I am alone a lot, aren't I? I'm not anti-social, I swear – but I don't mind being alone, either, unless someone comes along and start harassing me.

Which is what Potter did. He strode up to me with that famous smirk on his face and his dishevelled black hair falling in front of his eyes and grabbed my hand to literally yank me upwards.

To which I did not magically (again, no pun intended) fall in his arms and spend the rest of the night dancing in them (gag). Instead, with a squeak (seriously?), I tumbled to the ground, my hand still uncomfortably wound in Potter's sweaty hand.

Did I mention the ground _hurts_? Especially when half of your body becomes familiar with the ground and the other half is stretched upwards. With pain shooting into my arm and bum, Potter pulled me upwards again. I staggered upwards and tried to ignore the worry in his hazel eyes. I stared at his eyebrows determinedly and shot the dirtiest look I could.

"What's your _problem,_ Potter?" I demanded, wrenching my hand from his grasp. The worry flitted from his eyes, replacing it with a look of utter confusion.

It wasn't very confusing. He practically assaulted me.

Right?

Don't question my logic.

"Are you okay?" he asked me reluctantly, shoving his hands in his pockets. I chose to ignore this and flipped my hair over my shoulder rather dramatically. I placed my hands on my hips as the song switched to a faster one.

"You can't just pull at any random girl's hand and expect her to be okay with that," I told him angrily as the song blared in our ears. He leaned closer to hear me, that awful, _awful _smirk returning to his face.

"You're _not_ okay with that?" he said so quietly, I strained to hear him over the thump-thump of the music – even if he was so close. I stepped back wearily, not letting my glare waver for even a second. I wasn't going to let his good looks get the better of me.

"No, I'm not," I shot defiantly, crossing my arms against my chest. His eyes traveled over me, and I felt self-conscious. Potter had barely spoken a word to me before, or acknowledged my existence, but he acted as if he had me entirely figured out. But he didn't.

He didn't know the half of it.

Feeling infuriated, I said the words I still regret to this day. "I'm not going to be one of the slags you date, Potter. Go bother someone else."

Flashing another smirk, Potter retorted. "You couldn't be. You're not a slag."

Look who gained a new target?

I don't like to be thought of as a target, or a mission. In fact, I hated it. That's all I ever was to him as he asked me out countless times over the last year, tried to get me drunk – he even _proposed_ once.

I think I've enough humiliation for a lifetime.

Potter's sister, Lily, upon seeing the disastrous attempts, explained to me that he was merely following the actions of his grandfather, to aim for the unattainable. The chase is everything and absolutely nothing at the same time; the more I push away, the more he wants me.

Smart girl.

Unfortunately, she never told me how to get him to _stop_. I wasn't going to give in, and I had a good reason for it, one that was no one's business but my own. There was nothing left to do but push him away, ignore him or hex him after the word 'Hogsmeade' had come out of his mouth.

So when Potter walked up to me on Christmas Eve, curled up in an armchair and all, I had no thoughts other than, _Get away from me. _But that would be rude.

Naturally, I had to find something worse.

"Potter, why aren't you at _home_?"

The words hit harder than I had intended, but in a moment, the hurt was gone. His smirk and flush blended into an awkward state as he held his hand out. I stared at it, perplexity rising from the pit of my belly, as well as amazement.

Well, this is new.

I glanced at his expression, where his trademark smirk was slightly faltering when I didn't take his hand – but only slightly. After looking from his hand to his face multiple times, I finally asked, "What are you _doing_?"

He flinched, but his hand stood steady towards me. "I'm asking for a chance," he offered. He seemed to be pleading.

Potter doesn't plead. What's wrong with him?

I ran a hand through my dark hair and turned back to staring at the darkening sky. "I can't give you that chance, Potter. Why can't you accept that?"

He let his hand fall rather suddenly, letting it hit his thigh with a loud _smack. _I tore my eyes away from the grounds to his back as he stormed away from the Common Room, looking… upset.

I stared after him in shock. In the year he's been tormenting me, he's never been openly upset at any rejection I've given him. Mainly, it was a shrug and a smirk, sometimes a round of laughter or even applause.

Never upset.

And it _bugged_ me. As I stared at snow falling heavily onto the Grounds and Hagrid's Hut, I couldn't get it out of my head – but he had no reason to feel upset, right? He's been playing me for a year. It's been nothing but a game for him.

But I felt guilty, and it was out there for the world to see, including Potter. I could almost see his figure out the window, wallowing in his misery…

Wait a minute. That _was _him!

I scrambled off the chair and pressed my nose against the glass. There was no mistaking him – that messy hair could be spotted from a mile away – and cursing myself, I gathered my coat and headed out.

For Prefect duties. I didn't care about him.

Goodness.

I had trudged through the blizzard wrapping around us, thoroughly pissed. My fingers were practically falling off my hands, my ears were numb and on top of it all, James Potter looked _drunk._

How in the name of Merlin did he manage to get drunk in twenty minutes?

As I approached him, his eyes lit up and he stumbled towards me happily, as though it were Christmas.

Actually, it _is _Christmas Eve…

Bugger.

"You're drunk _and _out after curfew?" I said in disbelief. His grin grew wider as he clutched my arm to drag me forwards, but I fell. Again.

This was just déjà vu, wasn't it?

I swore as snow seeped through my pajamas. Potter quickly hoisted me up in his arms, carrying me in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

Oh, no. Nononono_no_.

"Oi, Potter, put me DOWN!" I screamed into his ear, arms flailing and legs kicking the air. He stumbled again, nearly throwing me back into the snow. His grip tightened at my waist as I thrashed around some more; he simply would _not _let me go.

"Potter, I'm a Prefect!" I screeched some more. "Do you _really _want detention during the holidays?" He let out a burst of laughter, and my stomach flipped over; I couldn't help but admire it. It sounded so alive and free.

Then again, he _is _drunk…

"You worry too much," he said confidently, finally putting me down on my feet. I huffed and looked around; he had brought me to some remote part of the Forest I didn't recognize. The snow had barely fallen here because the trees were so thick and tall. I turned to ask Potter where he had taken me when I spotted the oh-so-familiar smirk spreading across his features.

Bloody prat.

"YOU – GIT!" I shouted, pummelling him with my fists. "You weren't drunk at all!" He shielded himself from my wrath with his arms, as he rightly should. Why would anyone pretend to be intoxicated?

I hate him. So much.

I turned to storm back to the castle, but I collided into something hard and invisible. Swearing slightly at the pain in my nose, I pushed at the wall – but it didn't budge. I turned around to Potter with an expression of pure loathing upon my face.

I cannot believe this. I'm trapped.

"What. Did. You. Do?" I asked, my voice low and menacing. Potter only pointed upwards at the branch above us, looking positively giddy. He beamed at the sprig of mistletoe, innocently clinging to the snow-covered branch.

My gaze flitted back to his hazel eyes before promptly bursting into tears.

Potter froze as the tears leaked from my brown eyes, spilling down my cheeks and into the snow. He made a movement, as if he were reaching to wipe the tears away, but he thought better and retreated his hands back. Instead, he grasped my hands, which were red and splotchy from the cold, and pulled me closer.

"Your tears are going to freeze," he joked lightly, his warm hands stroking mine. I shook my head and wrenched my hands from him and into my pockets, my back against the still-invisible wall. After a great deal of sniffling, I spoke up.

"You don't understand, Potter," I began quietly. "I don't refuse because you're not good-looking. I don't refuse because I'm playing hard to get, or because I want to be different." Potter's smirk fell and for once, I saw real concern in those eyes.

I didn't think that was possible.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to look straight into them when I said, "I don't believe I can ever fall in love." The concern disappeared as he leaned back against the wall, sliding down slowly. I did the same, clearing snow from a spot on the ground.

His exhaled slowly, littering the air with his cold breath. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asked in resignation, emotion only slightly tracing his words. I twisted my black hair, eyes cast onto the snow, my stomach still unsettled.

_Seriously, _I told myself. _Calm down._

But something had changed. And I have no clue to what it was.

"It's none of your business," I answered honestly, but softly. "Would it have stopped you?" He groaned slightly, gripping his mass of hair with both hands.

"I act oddly around you, Patil."

The words hung in the cold air, blowing it back and forth like a pendulum. The silence was suffocating, and I couldn't stand it; I had to interrupt the constant flow of nothing ringing within my ears.

"Why aren't you home for the holidays?"

Potter let out a low, sad chuckle. "Because of you." I rolled my eyes.

"That's not the reason," I said bluntly, rubbing my hands together. Potter moved closer to me, crossed his legs and took hold of my hands again. This time, I didn't stop him.

"You're the reason," he said indifferently, now staring at our hands. "I had to ask again. Christmas is the perfect time, don't you think?" I laughed softly.

"And look how that turned out," I teased, relief spreading through my hands. "You _will _stop pursuing me now, right?" Potter's hands tightened around mine and remained motionless. I had the distinct notion he was trying to find the right words.

"Just spit it out," I told him, and his eyes sparkled with laughter.

"What if," he said, leaning even closer to me with a slight smile, "I told you that I _do _believe in love?"

I shrugged it off. "I would agree with you." Confusion slowly etched across his face.

"What do you mean? Didn't you just –"

"I said that I was afraid of _falling_ in love," I clarified, having no idea where the words were coming from. "I could grow into it. I believe in love – just not at first sight."

His forehead crinkled. "And why's that?" My eyes flew down to our intertwined hands.

_None of your business._

"My parents divorced after they fell out of love," I admitted with a whisper, the words spilling out at their own will. Potter still looked baffled.

"A lot of people just aren't meant to be together," he started, but I interrupted.

"She was supposed to have an arranged marriage," I told him, pulling my hands slightly away, but his grip was too tight.

"What does that have to do with – oh. _Oh._" I watched as the understanding flooded his face, clearing it of the earlier confusion. "You don't believe in falling _in _love because you're afraid of falling _out _of love."

Bollocks.

He was spot-on.

Suddenly, the remaining colour drained from it, and he looked at me in horror. "Are you going to get one?" he asked hurriedly, as though if he asked quickly, the faster my answer would come. I loved to torture him, but I didn't. I shook my head.

"It's my own choice." Though arranged marriages aren't so bad anymore. It's more like a picking out a husband for yourself when you want to get married.

Perfect match, anyone?

He let out a sigh of relief, his eyes filling with something I hadn't ever seen before. "But that doesn't mean you can't believe in falling in love," he said knowingly."

"Says you," I countered. "How would you know _anything _about that?" My eyes travelled to our hands. And then it hit me.

I snapped my head up to his content expression. "You're not. You can't be," I shouted, my voice echoing in the dark Forest. His eyebrows shot up.

"What?"

"You can't be. You've been playing me for a year. I'm just a target." I wrenched my hands from his, the cold hitting them sharply. Like a wall. I shoved them in my pockets. "That's why I'm still here, Potter. You put a spell on the mistletoe."

He bit his lip. "That was originally why I did it," he confessed, guilt creeping into his eyes. His hands were held aloft, as if still reaching for mine. I backed further away, terror rising within me.

"Originally?"

He nodded. "Not anymore. D'you believe there are some things you just… know?"

My breath caught in my throat. "No," I choked out.

Potter nodded, looking nervous. "I guess I just figured it out." Honesty was written all over his face, sending butterflies straight through my stomach. "I think it's a bit too late for me _not _to believe in love. Something changed, I think." I gulped.

This cannot be happening.

The wall painfully stabbed my back as I shifted, but I had nowhere to go.

"Why are you trying to back up? I don't know a counter-spell." My eyes widened. I didn't actually have to kiss him, right? Not after all that?

"I'm not kissing you," I blurted out, tears creeping into my eyes again. "I can't. It would be leading you on." Potter's grin returned as suddenly as it had left when he scooted back to me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

Ah, there's the Potter I know and…

Not love. Hate.

Despise, in fact.

"Alright," he said cheerfully, squeezing me tightly. "I don't have any food, so we'll just have to die together!"

_WHAT?_

"Excuse me?" I gasped, throwing myself as far away from him as possible. My back seared with pain as it hit the opposite wall, but I didn't allow any tears to spill over. "I thought you would stop! You know the reason why!"

Potter ignored me, the happiness dancing in his eyes. "I can't quit now! You're growing to love me!" I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm down.

"Potter," I said loudly, with my eyes still closed, "I can't grow to love you unless we're married, which is never going to happen." I felt his breath on my face, and I wrinkled my nose.

"Patil," he said very close to me, closing his hands on either side of me. "A marriage is just like this. It's not a trap, but you certainly are stuck with a person for the rest of your life." I felt him move even closer, but I kept my eyes firmly shut. "Aren't you stuck with me?"

My stomach flipped, but I wasn't in love with him. I couldn't be.

"If you kiss me, I won't be stuck anymore," I said defiantly, now afraid to open my eyes. "I won't grow to love you." His breath tickled my nose as he chuckled quietly.

"Maybe you haven't grown to love me," he pondered quietly, "maybe you've actually done what you don't believe is possible. Maybe you've fallen in love with me." I kept my eyes shut.

It's not true. It can't be.

"What bothers me the most," he whispered, "is that you still think this is a game." My eyes were begging to open, but I shrunk away the temptation. I was anxious of what I'd see, but I didn't want to see his eyes. I was afraid that I would see my own.

"It's still a game," I refused, more to myself than him. "I'm still in the middle of a freaking dartboard." He laughed again, the air screaming with anticipation I did not desire.

But I did. I wanted it so badly.

It wasn't mewho wanted it, though. It was lust. It was hormones. It was something – _anything – _but love.

"You're not in the middle of the dartboard," he told me, the smirk tracing his voice. "You're not resisting anymore. You're in denial. You're in love with me." A chill passed through me, and I shivered.

My voice broke when I replied. "And what makes you think that I'll still be in love with you after this is all over and we're back at the castle?" And then I realized what I had just said.

Oh, man.

I just admitted it.

I could feel fresh tears rolling down my cheeks again. His lips touched them, and I backed further, my eyes scrunched tightly shut. I felt more trapped than ever.

"We're not your parents," he whispered against my cheek. Suddenly, the wall broke; I fell back into the snow, Potter's hands, previously pressed against the wall, sunk into the snow around me. My eyes flew open to see him hovering above me. The disappointment in his eyes was so deep, I didn't bother to move.

His breath swept across my face as he spoke. "Looks like I've fallen for you," he said gently, his lips brushing against my forehead. "I can't help but believe in it." I felt a sense of warmth leaving me as he lifted himself from me. I closed my eyes again, letting out a sigh of relief.

And suddenly, his cool lips were on mine, his hands gripping me tightly as though he'd never let go of me in the first place. I shivered, retrieving my hands from my pockets and running them through his hair, pressing him closer to me. I felt the tension fade away, filling me with another feeling that was completely and utterly foreign to me.

I had a feeling Potter knew exactly what it was.

When he pulled away, I saw him smile – not a smirk, because he'd won – but a smile. A real one. One that I'm sure no one else had ever seen before.

My eyes shied away from his and I blushed slightly. He hovered above me, looking like the happiest boy on earth.

"I didn't think it would work," he joked breathily, glancing at the mistletoe again. "Obviously, I have different motives now, but I'd thought you would've slapped me as soon as it was over."

I slid out from underneath him. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter," I told him as we straightened up. "My lips were cold." He laughed as his freezing fingers slipped into my warm ones and he whispered to himself, something along the lines of '_Finally._'

And I felt something real for once. Something called faith.

I hate the holidays.

Okay, so maybe I don't hate them _all _that much.


End file.
